


in a lonely room

by danicuh



Category: Oklahoma! - Rodgers/Hammerstein
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22385023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danicuh/pseuds/danicuh
Summary: He hated the word hope, because he didn't believe in it, but in moments like these, he didn't know what else to call his desperation.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	in a lonely room

**Author's Note:**

> title is from 'lonely room' from oklahoma—obviously.
> 
> anyway there's something wrong with me so here's this piece where i feel bad for jud for some reason. if it doesn't make sense it's on purpose

A harsh, rhythmic tapping— _tip tip tip tip tip tip_. The heel of his boot hitting the wooden floor over and over and over again. Some gentle sound, two rough fabrics rustling together, again and again as he shook his knee restlessly against the side of his bed. Muttering under his breath here and there, without even noticing he was doing it.

No one around to hear it, anyway. The peddler had gone, frightened no doubt. He couldn't remember a time people hadn't wanted to get away from him as quickly as they could. _A feller wouldn't feel very safe in here with you…_ Maybe he liked it that way. Maybe he wanted to be alone—no, no one wanted to be alone. Not truly. He didn't want to be alone at all.

He looked down at the palms of his hands and saw that he had been digging his fingernails into them. Small, red, crescent-shaped lines appeared, but he paid it no mind. Now he was focusing on his fingernails. They were filthy. How had he never noticed before? The underneath all caked with dirt and who knows what else, jagged edges and crooked knuckles, too. On account of all the times he'd broken them. He slapped his hands on the bed, out of sight and out of mind, begging himself to think about something else. The darkness of the smokehouse and the quiet in the air did little to shake his mind out of its current solemn stupor.

"Maybe Curly was right," he hissed to himself, one final stomp of his boot as he realized he had been shaking his leg. "Stupid, worthless cowhand. Stupid, worthless…"

No one would ever want to be touched by those hands. Dirty and calloused, used to farm work and fondling postcards, past fifteen years. Whose fault was _that_? His, he'd reckon, but the thought made him angry.

He wanted to blame them, other people, everyone else—but he couldn't, not really. He pretended to, of course, always telling himself how _angry_ he was. He even told it to the other farmhands he sometimes felt normal around, those passing moments where he could feel related to, like he belonged. They were all disparaged in one way or another, men like him.

But when he was alone at night he didn't think about how much he wanted to get back at people, how much he wanted to hurt those who had wronged him, like the other men did. When he was alone at night he just wished someone would treat him another way for once. Faces of people he had yet to meet, instead of the ones he resented.

When he woke up in the morning, it was back to being angry. Tending to his work, hauling firewood and plowing the fields, all the while his misery and indignation guiding him. But what'd he work so hard for, anyway? To get people to treat him better, he supposed. It had never worked in all the years and places he had done it. There was something that kept him trying anyhow.

He hated the word hope, because he didn't believe in it, but in moments like these, he didn't know what else to call his desperation.

People had treated him badly for as long as he could remember. At some point, back in times and places he hated thinking about, he had decided to keep everyone at a distance. Even when other farmhands he met told their stories over drinks, he didn't have anything to tell them. There were stories, of course, sometimes even funny ones that they might have liked, but he didn't want to share them. They were his to think about, his to remember. That was all he really had. He kept his words simple, short. Agreed with them, nodded his head. Nothing to get someone to ask questions, poke around.

And even though he knew it didn't make sense, it wasn't _rea-son-able_ , he still wondered why no one ever tried to reach in. He thought there had to be someone who recognized his reserve, and wanted to actually see what was in that greasy head of his before they decided they didn't like it. (Because even he couldn't kid himself into believing that once they found out they _wouldn't_ dislike it.) Instead he was spurned, overlooked just like the mouse chewing the broom, the cobweb on the shelf. Sometimes he thought it was all his fault, but then where would that leave him?

It was easier to be that way with the world. He hated it. He hated being out there in it, around other people, outside of his _hole_ , like Curly said… 

He grabbed an old bottle from the floor and hurled it at the wall. The hard glass shattered, but he felt the same, and he felt his eyes stinging with tears. He didn't try to hold them back. No one was around, and even if they were, what would they care? He had cried in front of Curly just minutes before. Worked him up, all in excitement about his impending funeral, if all he would do is hang himself. He was used to the mocking. _Maybe you'll miss it. Maybe you'll go first._ Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea.

He sobbed for a few minutes, his head hanging low, ugly and strained. The sight of his heavy, muddy boots, and the holes in the dusty, wooden floor, and the empty, aged beer bottles, all made him want to cry harder. But he didn't. He looked up, wiping his nose and eyes on his sleeves, raking a hand through his tangled hair. The posters on the wall seemed like they were staring right back at him; _Police Gazette_ women laughing at him just like real women.

How did Curly get away with it? Why had he let him treat him that way? ...He almost hadn't. That impulsive gunshot could've went some places other than the ceiling. But then that made him even angrier—it's like Curly knew he was too much of a coward to stand up for himself. Why, he even had him wishing he could see his own funeral. Just for a chance to have people thinking about him.

A field mouse scurried across the floor then. He watched it, running from a hole under the bed and to the far wall, running between the pieces of broken glass towards another hole in the boards. He wished he could've petted it. Rats, mice, little animals everyone wanted to kill just for being alive, now he related to _them_.

He liked what he did. It was all he'd ever known, but he liked it. Sowing oats, milking cows, getting up early in the morning before anyone else to see the sun rise on your lonesome. It was honest work, but it wasn't exciting. It wasn't charming or swoon-worthy. No woman woke up in the morning waiting for a farmhand to sweep her off her feet.

Everyone thought they were better than him. The old farmers at Quapaw did, the ones at Tulsa, all the ones from every farm he had ever worked at since he was a child in Arkansas. All the townsfolk, too, and everyone else. Maybe it was because he never had too much to say—they must've thought he was stupid, stupid enough that they could jeer at him and he wouldn't notice. Well, he noticed. That's why he always left. But this time was different; he didn't want to keep running away. He wanted _change_. 

Like Laurey… _Laurey_. He ground his teeth together at the mere thought of her. He had never worked on a farm with a girl who wasn't already married—had never even thought about it, until that one farmhand he knew told him about the farm he'd burned down on account of the girl he took a shine to. He remembered being shocked; the funny things people tended to do when they were all emotional. He didn't think he'd ever be like that.

But he'd worked for the Williams' for two years now, and they'd been nicer than most. Eller was a fine employer, and she paid him well enough. He liked being the only farmhand—no one to try to tell him what to do, 'cause he was the only one who could do it. They relied on him.

When he first came, he hadn't paid Laurey any mind. She was just another woman, another person he worked for, someone else he overlooked because they overlooked him. Then that first winter came, and he took on a nasty ill head, couldn't get out of bed for two days. Laurey came down with something she'd made for him, touched his forehead to feel for a fever. He couldn't remember the last time someone had touched him like that, or cared enough to do something for him. It had never happened.

It was enough to drive him crazy. He thought about her constantly, every sight of her putting the feeling of her warm hand on his brow right back into his mind. Every morning he came in for breakfast, he kept his eyes off her, but with such an obvious strain that it was uncomfortable for everyone. Sometimes he didn't come in for breakfast at all, fearing that someone would say something, that she'd make her true distaste for him known.

Things took a turn for the worse, a turn for the typical. She avoided him. He wasn't delusional, no, he knew what she was doing. She was trying to stay away from him. He knew she wasn't shy or playing coy, like he knew she did with the boys from town (especially that stupid cowhand). 

He knew there was nothing special about him; everyone was better than him, just like always. Of course a fine lady like her would be repulsed by a farmhand like him. Afraid of him, disgusted by him, whatever it was, it didn't make much of a difference. She wanted nothing to do with him.

But he couldn't shake the memory of the hand on his head; why had she done it? What'd she have to be so damn nice for? 

He didn't want to leave again; he was sick and tired of running away only to end up right at the same dead-end. So he started saving up his money, thinking of ways he could improve himself. Learn to read better, write better, maybe. He wasn't a lost cause, he couldn't be. He could be just as great as that stupid cowpuncher Curly McLain.

Then he heard about the box social, and the auction for the schoolhouse. He had never been to a real party or a dance before, never. The only dancing he had done was in Quapaw, with other farmhands, during the months when there was little work to be found and all they could do was fool around in the empty barns with makeshift instruments. 

This opportunity was some sort of heavenly sign, had to be. He bought himself a new shirt (it was still in its box, sitting on his table where it could be safe from vermin), started washing his face with a cloth, saved up more money to bid on Laurey's basket. 

Then he asked her to go with him. And she said yes, out of all the things he expected her to say. She actually said _yes_. But now he knew why she'd said it; to make that cowboy Curly jealous. Make Curly come on down to the old smokehouse and put on airs, making sure he knew how much better he was than him. Have Curly let him know that the one thing he wanted was no longer going to be his, not even for one night.

He stood with a start, his hands clenched into fists. Now he was realizing how pathetic he was; saving his money for two whole years, all for one girl? All for one girl who was at this moment probably thinking of ways to let him know she wasn't going with him. That she wanted nothing to do with him, and she never had. 

He crossed the room to the table where the new shirt was. Opening the box, he nearly wanted to weep again. A brand new shirt he'd never wear. Except maybe in his coffin. He supposed it'd be pretty nice to be buried in. Make everybody happy for once, see him in a nice, clean shirt.

He glanced over at the hooks on the far side of the smokehouse. Behind a washbasin, two other shirts hung. They were both missing a couple buttons, with holes in the seam of one from a moth that had gotten in. He hadn't washed them yet, but he knew he should soon, because the ones he was wearing then were getting to be in quite a similar state. Just like Curly had said. 

Seemed like everything Curly said was true. He bit his cheek, slowly putting the lid back on the box, his hands trembling slightly. Whether from anger or fear or desperation, he didn't know. He didn't know what he was feeling.

He looked back up at the rope hanging from the rafters. It sure did look sturdy. 

**Author's Note:**

> as always, comments are appreciated.


End file.
